The Soup Job
by Lune-Solei
Summary: In which there is more rain, more soup, and no dancing. As well as horses, stolen keys, and threats. Eliot/Parker-ish. The sequel to The Rain Dance Job


**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Leverage_.  
**Title: **The Soup Job  
**Warnings:** Spoilers up to _The Second David Job_. Rather long and some language as well.**  
Genre:** Humor/Friendship/Romance  
**Characters/Pairing: **Eliot/Parker  
**Author's Note:** This is the sequel to _The Rain Dance Job_. There is currently the ideas for a third one circulating in my brain but I won't promise anything...Let me know what you think.

* * *

"You owe me soup." She watches as he turns to face her slowly and she smiles. "Since you know, Hardison, Sophie, and Nate ate ours."

"And whose fault was that?" Eliot demands. She shrugs and enters the elevator as the doors slide open. He follows her into the elevator which she's kind of surprised at. She'd half expected him to wait for the next one, or take the stairs. "Parker…"

"I think your place would be better. You have food there right? I only have fortune cookies and you can't make soup with them." She pauses, looking confused. "Or can you?"

"You can't," he mutters. "Look, Parker, I…"

"You like me," she reminds him. "So it's your place then since you can't make soup out of fortune cookies or Cheerios." He doesn't want to know why that's all she has in her house.

"How about I bring you soup tomorrow?" he asks. She tilts her head, staring at him as the elevator pings and the doors open. "What?"

"It might not be _raining_ tomorrow," she replies. He stares at her but she just smiles back like she made perfect sense. And maybe she did – to herself anyway. "Come on." She leads the way to his car and he continues to stare at her incredulously.

"Parker, we're both in wet clothes."

"Another reason for your place since you can't wear my stuff but I can wear yours." She climbs into his car and it's then that he realizes she lifted his keys. She dangles said keys over the console, smiling brightly. "Come on, I'm starving."

"Do you even hear yourself?" he demands. He gets in the car, slams the door behind him. "Give me the damn keys." She smirks as she drops them in his palm. "I'm droppin' you off at your house."

She glares at him. "I want soup, I'm hungry." He wants to argue and knock some sense into her (not literally). He wants her to understand that she can't just go around telling people she wants to be fed and…and wear their clothes. It isn't normal. And then he remembers that it's Parker, and then that makes it normal. For her anyway. "What's wrong? Did you forget how to turn on the car?"

"Just…be quiet," he growls. She looks out the window as the tires squeal. They merge with traffic and she watches the scenery idly. It's still pouring and everything is misty and wet. He glances over and sees her smiling at the glow of the red light on the asphalt. "Did you mention this idea to Sophie?"

"Hm?" She looks at him curiously. "No. Why would I tell Sophie?" He just shakes his head and she frowns before sighing. "It's cold."

"Because you're wet," he grumbles. "Because you had to dance in the rain." He makes the mistake of looking at her and sees the hurt look flashing in her eyes.

"You didn't have fun?"

"Parker…"

He tries to think of how to explain this to her. How to make her understand that he _really_ doesn't like being cold and wet. Every explanation he comes up with though sounds callous and mean. He falls silent and stares at the road ahead.

It hadn't been _that_ bad, he reasons. Sure he was cold and wet now, and he had feared she had finally lost it up there before, but it hadn't been a _bad_ experience. She had been childlike and had seemed to enjoy herself too. Especially when he'd spun her. He ducks his head to hide a smile.

"Yeah," he answers finally. "Yeah, I had fun."

"Good, now can you drive faster? Wet jeans aren't fun." He sighs heavily, glaring at the road and stepping on the gas a little more. God, what he put up with for the sake of the team.

--

He hears the dryer start up and sighs a little. He still can't believe he agreed to this. He still can't believe he didn't drop her off at her place. Then again for all he knows she could Spiderman her way after him. She certainly has enough rope. He frowns at his thoughts (and the smile on his face) before concentrating once more on the carrots in front of him.

He's just gotten into a good rhythm too when he hears her enter the kitchen. That surprises him, since she's usually silent. "Need any help?" she asks. He turns to tell her no, to tell her to go away because he's cooking (and thinking). He almost slices his palm open with the knife. "Are you okay?"

He stares at her incredulously. And then he turns back to the carrots and tomatoes sitting on the cutting board. He will not stare at her; he will not _look_ at her. She huffs beside him as she crosses her arms over her chest and he can imagine the look on her face. He focuses on chopping the carrots evenly.

"Eliot?"

"Parker, what happened to the pants I gave you?" he questions instead. If his voice is getting a little tenser it's because he's nearing the end of the carrot and he doesn't want a repeat of the almost-hand-slicing. "Parker!" he barks.

She jumps and shrugs as she leans against the counter next to him. The hem of one of his old shirts reaches mid-thigh on her, when she's not playing with it like now. "They were too big. Why, does it bother you? I mean, it's just as short as the Flight Attendant dress I had to wear…or that one skirt, you know, in New York?" He remembers. He wishes he didn't remember now. "Actually, I think the skirt in New York was shorter…"

"_Parker_." She gives him a blank look as she shuts up. "Couldn't you have just rolled the legs up or somethin'?"

"Yes. If it had been just the length. They were too wide and kept falling off. I put them back in your drawer."

"You went through my things?"

"No, I returned a belonging. It's the complete opposite of stealing."

"I didn't say "steal" I said "went through" Parker." He glares at her and she shrugs again, looking innocent. Then with a smile she boosts herself up onto the counter next to him, legs swinging idly. He turns back to the food he's supposed to be chopping. The sooner he gets the vegetable soup done, the sooner she gets it, and the sooner she leaves and he can be alone. "Why don't you go watch TV?"

"Because I like watching you cook." She stares at him while he finishes the carrots and moves on to the tomatoes. She watches the frown on his face and the flash of the knife. "Where did you learn to?" She steals a slice of carrot and chews it as she waits for him to answer.

"To cook?" He wants to make sure that he understands her question – that she didn't suddenly jump off into another thought he wasn't able to follow. She nods though, still chewing the carrot. "Does it matter?" She looks puzzled, her head tilted to the side and her wet hair sticking to her face. They fall silent, the only sounds coming from the dryer, the knife hitting the cutting board, and her chewing. "It was trainin'."

"Cooking?" She laughs and shakes her head. "I think you're crazier than me. How is cooking training? Unless…did you learn how to poison people?"

"_No_." He glares at her out of the corner of his eye but she doesn't notice. He watches as she takes an apple out of the fruit basket on the counter and bites into it. She's lucky he always washes his fruit when he brings it home. "It was to show me how to handle a knife." He takes a breath and then twists the knife around. She raises her eyebrows and stares at him around a mouth full of red apple.

"Look, you hold the knife like this, right?" He demonstrates and she nods. "It's good for vegetables and cutting onions." It feels very déjà vu to him, going through this with her. Except it was with Nate before. "If you hold it like this though? Like this it cuts through a person. People are like knives, everything's in context." Definitely getting the déjà vu vibe.

"O-kay," she says slowly. She shrugs and he focuses on the leek he's cutting up now, not on the bare leg pressed against him. Honestly, his kitchen's pretty big (definitely triple the size of the break room), she could sit anywhere else. Really. "That makes sense." She nods to herself. "Kind of like ropes and thread." He makes a sound of agreement even if he has no idea if it's true or not. "But that just explains _knives_ and not _cooking_."

"Cooking taught patience. You can't just rush in and go full tilt. You have to have a plan and sometimes you have to wait for the right time," he explains. "And you have to follow directions," he adds as an afterthought.

"Hm," she hums. She twists a little and watches him work for a moment or two. "Do you need any help?" she repeats her earlier question.

He gives her a look and she shrugs. "No, I'm fine."

"Okay." She slides off the counter and tosses the apple core into the trash can. Before he can say anything she exits the kitchen and enters the living room. There's a wide screen television hanging on the wall above the fireplace and she eyes it speculatively before wandering the room. A leather sofa is shoved up against the wall across from the television. There's a painting over it of a horse of all things (she suppresses a shudder) and an old coffee table between sofa and fireplace. There are a few picture frames around the room, two on the fireplace mantle, one on the end table next to the lamp, and one on the book case in the corner.

Curiously she edges over to the ones on the mantle, like she's afraid they'll bite her or something. She knows normal picture frames don't bite, but this is _Eliot_. If he can knock out six guys in three seconds he could probably teach a picture frame to do the same. Well, probably not. She picks up the one in the plain wooden frame, studying it through narrowed eyes. It's a picture of a boy on a horse (of course). He (the boy, not the horse) is wearing a Stetson and grinning at the camera. She isn't really that surprised to notice it's a younger Eliot.

"Which one're you lookin' at?" She looks up in surprise as he approaches, drying his hands on a dishtowel. When he stops next to her she turns the frame so he can see it and he nods. "Ah."

"When was this?" she asks quietly. He gives her a look, like he's trying to figure out if he wants to tell her so she tries to smile reassuringly. By the way his brow furrows she isn't sure if she's doing it right.

"I think I was thirteen," he comments looking at it.

"You used to ride?" He gives her a Look and she rolls her eyes. "I know you _ride_ but I didn't know you _rode_ then."

"Yeah Parker, I rode."

"What was its name?" she questions despite herself. He snorts.

"_Her_ name was Daisy." There's a smile on his face as he studies the photo and she looks at him curiously.

"Like the flower? I was thinking about getting a daisy plant for the new office you know, since they're supposed to be sturdy."

He gives her a long look. "Yeah Parker, like the flower." There's something off about his tone though and she tilts her head, trying to figure it out. He doesn't elaborate though and she's still confused.

"What happened to Daisy?" He shoots her another Look before turning toward the sofa.

"Some asshole ran the trailer off the road and it caught fire." He's frowning now, clenching his teeth. Then he forces himself to relax and walk to the sofa. "First time I knocked a guy unconscious." He doesn't elaborate and she's secretly grateful because she doesn't think she wants to know. Silently she follows him to the sofa. "Soup's boiling now; it should be done in a bit." He gestures to the TV. "Anything you want to watch?"

"No," she answers. She tucks her legs under her, pulling his shirt down to cover them. The storm is still going on outside (which is really surprising) and she listens to it idly as she stares out the window. Eliot shifts and then there's the melody of the TV starting up before some announcer is yelling about some team. She glances at the TV and then away. Hockey doesn't interest her much.

"You know why I like the rain?" she asks suddenly. She doesn't know if he's acknowledged her or not and she doesn't really care. "It's calming, and soothing. You can lie on your bed and listen to it pound away and think that you're all by yourself, that there's no one else in the world. It's what used to keep me sane when I was in foster care."

She looks at him and he's staring at her curiously. He's trying to figure out how they got to that particular point in conversation but he doesn't mind it. Not much anyway. "Why did you tell me that?"

"Because you told me about Daisy," she answers simply. She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees. "And you're making me soup. Twice."

He chuckles at that, shaking his head. "Don't worry about it Parker."

She shifts on the sofa so she's facing him and he raises an eyebrow at her. "I'm not," she replies. "I'm trying to get you to understand that rain's good." She eyes him speculatively. "You don't have to hate it." She leans her head on his shoulder suddenly. "I never danced in the rain before. Did you?"

"No," he admits. He had done a lot of things in the rain before but never danced. His fingers start to stroke her hair automatically. "Hey Parker?"

"Mm?" she questions. Her eyes are trained on the screen, watching as two of the players start hitting each other. She wonders idly if Eliot plays hockey and it brings a smile to her face. "What?" She fights to keep her eyes open. There's _soup_ after all, but the stroking feels nice and no one's ever played with her hair before.

"Thanks." She wants to ask why he's thanking her. But her eyes are closing and she's feeling warm and happy and suddenly _really_ tired.

"Welcome," she manages to say before she succumbs.

--

Parker awakes later disorientated and confused. The room is mostly dark, the TV off. Something is tangled around her legs and after a moment of frustrated kicking she pulls the blanket off. _Oh_. She can hear water running in the kitchen and someone singing low. She frowns. No, not someone, _Eliot_.

Slowly she crawls off the sofa and shivers. She grabs the blanket and wraps it around herself as she stumbles blearily into the kitchen. Eliot's back is to her and he's singing as he washes a blender. She tilts her head before shuffling over to him. "I didn't know you sang," she mumbles.

"Jesus Parker," he exclaims. He turns to look at her and she shrugs, holding the blanket a little tighter now that her bare feet are on tile. "You slept through a blender but woke to me singing?"

"Woke to water running," she replies. There's a large bowl of soup on the counter and she eyes it speculatively. The water turns off and she shivers a little. "Can I have some?"

He gives her a disbelieving look. "Course you can. I made it for _you_." She nods and looks around for a spoon. "Not the whole thing," he mutters, "here." He shoos her aside and takes a ladle, scooping some into a smaller bowl and getting a spoon out of the top drawer. When he turns around she's at the table trembling under her blanket. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," she answers. "I'm just a little cold." He frowns and walks over. He sets the bowl down and brushes the hair out of her face. He frowns further, hand against her forehead.

"You're hot."

She tilts her face so that she can stare up at his face. "Thanks. You aren't too bad yourself."

He chokes and presses his palm to her forehead again. "No, I mean hot as in you have a fever hot."

"Oh." Her eyes look a little glassy around the edges and she wrinkles her forehead. She shifts the blanket so she can reach up and press her palm flat against his forehead. He goes a little cross-eyed staring at her thumb. "Well, you feel cold then." There's a smirk on her lips though and he isn't sure if they're still on the same page.

"Damn it Parker," he growls. "I told you you'd get sick."

She shrugs. "I don't feel sick, just cold."

"You probably have the flu and now I'm goin' to get it." He sits down in the chair next to her, watching as she digs into the soup. "Listen to me next time?"

She looks at him, the spoon handle sticking out of her mouth. He fights a smile. "But we had fun," she reminds him. "Sometimes there's a price." She yawns and looks around. "Can I sleep here?"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "I'm sure you'll be needing proper food anyway and I've probably already caught whatever you've got. I'll call Nate in the morning if I have to."

"Call Nate?" Her eyes look suspicious. "Why would you have to call Nate?"

"Let him know we can't make it in because we're sick." His eyes are laughing at her and she frowns as she scoops the rest of the soup into her mouth.

"Questions'll be asked – you know how they are," she warns.

"Mm-hm," he agrees. She scrapes at the bowl and then pushes it and the spoon aside. "Done?" She nods and he deposits the empty bowl in the sink. "Come on; let's get you settled on the sofa."

She follows obediently, silent except for the rustling blanket. He tosses a pillow onto the sofa and she curls up happily, tucking her bare feet under the blanket. "Thanks."

"I'll get you some meds from the bathroom." He eyes her. "You want your clothes? The dryer stopped about forty minutes ago."

"No," she mumbles. "I'm comfy now. Thanks Eliot."

He brushes back a strand of her hair and she smiles briefly before he heads to the medicine cabinet. When he returns she's asleep though. He shakes his head and leaves the pills and a glass of water on the table next to her. He stares at her for a moment more.

"So help me Parker if you've gotten me sick," he growls. She makes a noise and snuggles deeper into the sofa. He smirks before heading off to bed. He tells himself he's tired and achy because he's been up since six but he's finding it hard to believe that. He glares at the rain still falling steadily outside his window. "I _hate_ rain," he grumbles.


End file.
